Snowflakes
by Zoni
Summary: Eric and Alan watch the snow fall on a winter evening. Eric/Alan, Very fluffy and sappy.
1. Snowflakes

**Snowflakes  
><strong>_by Zoni_

I love snow. Everything about it reminds me of how very fragile life is. Far above the earth, snowflakes are born into uncaring winds. They spend their lives drifting down to earth, precious moments spent dancing around their companions as they fall. Then, their lives are snuffed out of existence when they touch the warmth of the ground and finally find their home. Even when one single flake is stubborn enough to cling onto life, its desperation cannot keep it whole. Landing in piles and drifts along the brick pathways of a garden, that one flake is lost in a myriad of others until it melts. Their beauty, perfect as it is, is fleeting.

Every time that it snows, I come out and stand on my back patio to watch the flurries fall. This evening is no exception; the snow is simply a perfect ending to cap off a faultless day. Days that are not marred by the symptoms of my illness, the Thorns of Death, are few and far between. When not even work can dampen my spirits, I feel as though my life is somehow blessed, if only for a few hours until pain or stress return.

Today, work was pleasantly uneventful and routine. I have not once felt the sharp prick of the Thorns, reminding me of my eventual fate. Today has been as close to flawless as I have seen it in nearly a decade. This snow, the first of the year, has only made the day's perfection more apparent. I could not help but come outside to watch the snow fall on my garden.

At my back, the wooden door to my house swings open with an audible creak. With a click, it slides closed once more as Eric walks up behind me. Even through the blanket that he lays over my shoulders, I can feel the warmth of his hands. The quilt that I now have wrapped around me is warm, fresh from my own living room. Even so, having Eric there is more comforting to me than the coverlet. A smile slides easily across my lips as I lean back into his touch. His hands on my shoulders steady me as I rest against his chest.

Eric's voice is rough as he asks, "What were you thinking, coming out here without a coat? You're going to catch your death in this weather."

Raising my eyebrows in surprise at his wording, I turn my head to look at him. As soon as he sees my expression, the realization of what he said strikes home. His words are an uneasy reminder of the one thing that drives the tension between us at the worst of times. He curses at his own slip of the tongue, a mistake anyone could have made. "Sorry, I wasn't thinking. I didn't mean it like that."

"It's fine," I tell him. I mean it. Leaning back into his warm hold once more, I cannot be upset with him. A minor gaffe like that is nothing to fuss about. That is even truer when said of Eric. Everything that he does shows much he cares for me. Even just bringing this blanket out to cover my shoulders from the cold is a gesture of concern and affection, one that I greatly appreciate. He did not have to do that, and yet he did.

The Thorns of Death weigh on my mind even at the best of times. I would be deluding myself if I said that I was the only one who it affected. My illness eats away at Eric, too, making him worry. When the pain is too great for me to bear alone, he is always there to share my burden in any way that he can. That is why I do not complain if he hovers just a little too much, or if he dotes on me a bit too often. Those things are saved for when we are truly alone, away from our co-workers and the human souls that we collect.

Eric wraps his arms around me, pulling me closer and keeping me warm as we watch the flecks of white fall. The irony of my relationship with him is not lost on me, not by far. Fate has a cruel sense of humor, killing an immortal shinigami with an illness like the Thorns of Death. Equally poignant is the fact that my death has brought to me the very best thing that ever happened in my life. After all, my illness was what first brought the two of us together. In the beginning, Eric was nothing more than a concerned supervisor who worried about the welfare of one of his underlings. Now, he is the turning point around which much of my life revolves. Even work cannot overshadow the light that he has become, not when I am safe here at home in his arms.

A shaggy mop of blond hair obscures part of my vision as Eric leans his head against mine, enjoying the closeness. I am quite certain that Eric is suffering through the snowstorm only because he knows that I enjoy the weather. He hates the cold, but cold and wet are the worst possible combination for him. Next to taking out the trash, dreary weather is his most dreaded adversary. Considering his hatred of the two, I have to wonder why he works in the London office. Standing out here in the middle of the falling snow with me has to be torture. As I turn to look at him, though, the expression on his face is one of contentment. He is genuinely smiling, his breath leaving his lips in a pale fog.

The only sign of dissatisfaction that I can detect is the slightest frown of his brows as a snowflake lands on his skin. That small tell is amusing because it intensifies as the snow picks up, falling steadily around us. Tiny white crystals are sticking to his hair, eyebrows and even the goatee on his chin. The sight of his thick eyebrows twitching from the chill that clings to them is comical. My quiet laughter doubles when he reaches up, brushing some of the particles from his beard and wiggling his chin in the cold. At the sound of my laughter, he pulls back and arches one eyebrow skeptically. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing," I tell him, very unconvincingly. The response is so unimpressive that he grins, pressing a kiss to my forehead as I turn around to look at him. Ever so gently, he reaches up and brushes a snowflake from the tip of my nose with one broad thumb. Moments like this, quiet and comfortable, are something to be treasured. There is nothing that could be better than spending time with the person you love and knowing that they care for you. He has made my life richer, and I am a better person for it. Even without the words, I know that he feels the same. Those sentiments resound in everything that he does for me with each passing day.

Leaning up on my toes, I meet his lips in a sweet kiss. The caress lasts only a moment before I pull away, shivering into the blanket despite myself. Eric smiles, reaching up to ruffle my hair. He frowns when snowflakes in the strands chill his hand unexpectedly. Rather than comment on the weather, he makes a suggestion. "Come on, let's go back inside. I'll make you some hot cocoa."

"You'll do no such thing," I tell him, looking up at him in surprise. "You'll burn my kitchen down."

"Bullshit. I'm a great cook!" He insists, hands on my shoulders as he guides me back into the house.

Already forming a protest to his bold declaration, I let myself be led back into the house, where I will let him fix me something hot to drink. A smile still plays across my lips as we walk through the door. I cannot help but think that perhaps the snow falling outside is not so hopeless. After all, someone treasures it, even if only for a while.

**End  
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><p><em>Author's Notes: <em>I walked home last night in the middle of a snow storm, and it struck me that Alan might really like snow. There are many parallels between it and him. I've been wanting to do something winter-y for these two anyway. :) Hope you enjoyed the fluff.


	2. Hot Cocoa

**Eric's P.O.V.**

****Stepping into Alan's house after standing out in the snow comes as a welcome reprieve. Our shoes and my coat are quickly discarded, keeping the melting mess from the outdoors isolated to the small brick patio just inside his backdoor. A warm fire in the hearth assures the fact that we will both be warm soon. I do not like to see him shivering like this, even if it is his own fault. What could have possessed him to go outside without a coat in this weather?

Regardless of whatever chill he might be feeling, the look on his face is anything but cold. His skin is flushed from the weather outside. He is smiling at me. I love that smile, it lets me know that he is doing okay for now. He worries me sometimes, when nothing I do can put that smile on his face. Every once and a while, I will find him just staring off into space, looking at nothing. Some evenings, like tonight, he will be outside, watching the ever-changing clouds.

Moments like that bother me, because I know that I do not have to wonder what he is thinking about when he does so. He is running out of time. We both know it; we have talked about it more than once. I know, but I do not care. I will deal with it. Right now, the only thing that matters is the fact that I have him here with me.

With my coat hung up on the hook on the back of the door, I turn back to Alan and guide him over towards the couch. "Just have a seat and I'll fix you some hot cocoa. Won't be but a minute."

"I told you that you'll do no such thing! You are not cooking, and that is final. I remember what happened last time," Alan says, protesting. The blanket that I wrapped around him falls off his shoulders as he stands up. He does his best to look serious and commanding as he glares up at me from half a foot below my face. His hair is standing out at all different angles from where I ruffled it with my hand earlier, and his glasses are crooked. The effect is less than intimidating.

In response, I grin. "Well, you can't blame me for wanting to help you out. You have to be pretty damn cold after standing outside like that. If you'd like, I could find another way to warm you up..."

The instant the words leave my lips, his face turns a very interesting shade of pink and his eyebrows shoot up nearly to his hairline. Even before he speaks, I know that I said the right thing. Pouting, he mutters, "If you're that set on hot cocoa, I will help you fix it. Get the milk out of the icebox, please."

Grinning, I lean down and press a kiss to his forehead. "Sure thing."

Alan's kitchen is easy enough to navigate. That is partially because of the fact that it is clean, neat and well organized like pretty much everything else he owns. The rest of it is because his kitchen is incredibly tiny. While he is not far off the mark in saying that I cannot cook well, his own skills are less than stellar. Not that I am complaining or anything. Luckily, work eliminates time for meals more complex than sandwiches or very basic soups on most days.

Alan's icebox is a small model, made of a rich wood that is completely at odds with the dull blue tile in his kitchen. I pull open the door and reach inside, fishing out one of the glass bottles of milk. By the time that I turn around, Alan has already assembled the rest of the ingredients and some measuring cups on the counter. As I pop the tin lid off the bottle, he asks, "Have you ever fixed hot cocoa before?"

"Of course," I reply smoothly. "Who hasn't?"

He watches me suspiciously as I pick up the pan that he has set out, pouring the milk into the basin without measuring it. The same look stays on his face as I light the stove and begin to heat the pan, grabbing a wooden spoon to stir the liquid. I pretend not to see the expression as he turns, measuring out cocoa powder and sugar for us to use.

Once everything is measured, he slides the measuring cups closer to the side of the stove. Coming up beside me, he rests a hand on my back as he leans forward and pours in the sugar. I continue stirring, smiling when I feel his hand through my shirt. That one small touch makes me pretty happy. Whenever I am with him, I can forget the stress from work and all of my other worries. I do not get enough of these evenings spent together, especially since neither of us knows how many of them we have left.

When he finishes pouring the sugar, he gives me a brief hug, leaning his head against my chest for a moment. Leaning down, I whisper gruffly, "Give me the cocoa?"

"Please," he adds, reaching over and picking up the second measuring cup. He hands it to me, and I tilt it to pour the powder into the pan. Nearly as soon as I do so, his hand is over mine. I raise my eyebrow questioningly at the action. In response, he mutters, "You are pouring too fast. You can't go fast with cocoa powder, or it will just turn into a cloud and you'll never get any of it into the pot."

"Fine, fine." Under his hand, I slow the stream of bittersweet particles that are falling into the pan as the two of us finish adding the cocoa to the mixture.

When the last of the cocoa is in the pan, Alan smiles happily. "We're done."

"Not quite," I counter. At the look of confusion on his face, I lean down and press a quick kiss to his lips. "One moment, love. Take this."

Alan takes the spoon, slowly stirring the mixture while I pull away from him. Walking around to his other side, I open one of the cupboards and fish through the endless tins and glass bottles until I find my prize. Pulling it out of the cupboard, I dangle it so that he can see.

"Vanilla?"

"Yep." Grabbing a spoon, I measure out what I need. "This is the good stuff, really makes all the difference."

Coming up behind him, I wrap one arm around his waist while I use the other to pour the thin extract into the pan. When the spoon is empty, I lay it on the counter and reach up to cover his hand with my own, much as he did when we were pouring the cocoa powder into the pot. Pressed up against me, Alan is blushing. Even so, he is still smiling, warm and genuine. I wish I could read his mind right now. I would love to know what he is thinking when he has that expression on his face. He looks happy.

As much as I love holding him like this, there is only so long that I can push it before he realizes that the cocoa has been done for a while now. I let out a sigh. "Go get the mugs."

Alan slides out from in front of me, wiggling a little to get between my body and the stove. As he goes to get the cups, I turn the range off. After dumping the dirty measuring tools in the sink, I turn around and skim the little bit of skin from the top of the pot. As soon as that is done, I pick up the pan and pour the contents into the two large stoneware cups that Alan has placed on the counter. As soon as they are ready, he moves to pick one up. I stop him. "No, don't worry about it. Go sit down. I'll bring them out."

He scoots out into the living room, leaving me with a dirty pan and two very large, full cups of hot cocoa. Rinsing the pan out in the sink, I pick up both of the mugs and head out to the den. He is already sitting on the couch, two coasters positioned on the low-slung coffee table in front of him. Both of the mugs are set down strategically as I pray that I do not manage to spill the contents all over the place. As soon as I know that they are safe, I settle into the couch with Alan at my side.

No sooner have I taken my seat then Alan is leaning up against me. He reaches up with one slender hand, running it down the side of my face and pulling my gaze in his direction. I cannot help but smile at the look of contentment on his face. Running my hand through his h air, I tell him, "The cocoa's going to get cold, you know."

"I don't mind," he says, leaning up for a kiss. Wrapping my arms around him, I pull him closer, feeling the warmth of his body up against mine as he pushes my jacket out of the way. We may not have many more evenings like this left to enjoy. Even if that is true, I will make every moment count and every kiss as sweet as hot cocoa.

**The End  
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><p><em>Author's Notes: <em>Happy holidays, everybody. I'm finally done with this. I know it's short, but I hope it fills your sweet and sappy quota. :) Many thanks to my wonder, amazing and very sweet beta-reader, DemonCatWithaSpork.


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